


More Than Real

by spacey_cadet



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Gen, Horror, Self Harm, Spooky, Violence, dont read if you havent listened to the latest!, hurthurthurt, i hope im doing this right, its a terrible spaceship tattoo that he got with keepler very cartoony, kinda death, my first time posting oh god, time to kill, time to kill spoilers, trans!jacobi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 15:25:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8495146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacey_cadet/pseuds/spacey_cadet
Summary: Set post A Time To Kill. After the incident Jacobi is left wondering if he's real..and if he is how does he prove it? ((self harm and horror))





	

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy!

They had agreed to be in the module for 94 hours and in less than one misfortune had struck.

The timer Dr. Maxwell set shows there are a remaining 93 slow and steady hours left when Jacobi reassures them all that he is fine. When Maxwell opens up the rations for dinner, he excuses himself from the table to go to the sleeping quarters. It’s one room and four bunk beds. With everyone else out in the central deck, it’s the biggest bedroom he’s ever had.

“I am real.” He says quietly. “I’m real,” with more emphasis. He thinks about the final adjustments he just made on the exterior sensors. Keppler demanded accuracy and that meant someone had to walk outside. So he took on the space suit and he walked into the stars to check for inconsistencies. Not a soul was near him when he was delicately moving key panels aside. It had only been himself. He was sure of it. After a few deep breaths he went back out to join everyone for food. But for Jacobi, nothing settles.

With 90 hours left, he moved to the equipment room. Jacobi runs through inventory to distract himself. Counts the food, the hand held scanners, the space suits, even the buttons on the space suits. Every piece is in its assigned place, no duplicates. Through gritted teeth he says “I must be real.”

At 88 hours, Jacobi is woken to take his turn watching the machines in the central deck. He wasn’t sleeping anyway. Lovelace talks in her sleep and Eiffel snores. Jacobi gets up slowly. Maxwell places a hand on his shoulder. When he’s tired, his eyes are almost a pale green. Maxwell once told him that she loved his eyes because they reminded her of earth. “How are you?” she asks, with an uncomfortable emphasis on you. As if there is someone question remaining on the definition. “Fine,” he says. “Get some sleep.”

On the central deck he says to the wolf on screen “I am real.” He takes off his shoes and socks so that he can count his toes. Nine and a half toes accounted for. He lost most of his pinky toe on the right foot during a fireworks mishap when he was twelve. He counts his fingers. There are ten and three small burn scars just where they are supposed to be. Jacobi puts his socks back on. He begins his breathing exercises. It’s the same mediation he walked Eiffel through when he was recovering on the Urania. Slow and steady, find your focus.

At 83 hours, it’s time to go back to sleep. Eiffel walks in and taps him on the shoulder. Eiffel asks how he is, and Jacobi lies and says he’s fine. Seeing his distress, Eiffel offers to do the breathing exercise with him. “Tried that,” Jacobi grumbles and walks away.

After two hours of trying to sleep, he gives up. He goes to the bathroom and looks at himself in the mirror. His eyes are blue, he tells himself. He cannot remember that with certainty. Jacobi undresses in the fuzzy light and strips down to his boxers. He counts his toes again. Eight toes, same as when he counted before. Counts his fingers, two burn scars. Checks for the birthmark on his inner thigh. Looking back into the mirror he stares at his chest. The scars from his transitioning surgery are there. Everything about this body is exactly as he made it to be. As it was made to be.

There are now 80 hours to go and he’s almost nearly certain that the physical outward appearance is as it should be. Which only leaves the internal. He uses a pocket knife to lay a cut across his calf. The blood is warm and a thick red. Real. Jacobi laughs and shouts triumphantly, “I am real!” He cuts his forearm next. Small slices of verification.

At 79 hours he’s sitting on the floor of the bathroom smiling when he realizes that red liquid is easy to fake. No one has ever been skin deep. He pulls on his jumpsuit, with the bright Goddard Futuristics badge. There is so much grease and dirt on it that blood seeping through is not immediately obvious. Lovelace sees him on unsteady feet leaving and goes to help. She reaches out to touch him and hesitates, as if there’s toxic mold growing on him. With her hand just a fraction away from him, he waves her away. “I’m fine,” he reassures her.

Jacobi needed more time to think. At 77 remaining hours on the clock he pretends everything is alright and goes to play cards. The real Daniel, he thinks, would not jeopardize the mission. He carries on as if it is normal. After losing at poker, he bows out and goes to the cargo bay. As he leaves, Maxwell looks at the table where he rested his arm. She notices the dried blood that had flaked off.

With 72 hours left, Jacobi has thought of a better test. An alien would be prepared for outer space, their bones would have to be denser or heavier. Human bones, much like any human mind, can be broken with enough pressure. He secures the cargo hold so that no one will get in. No thing can get out. There’s nothing mission critical in here that can be broken. Jacobi takes his time setting up, finding the heaviest piece of cargo and a good lever. He sits down gently beneath it and does another body count. He has seven toes, due to carelessness with fireworks. He has ten fingers and four burn scars. Jacobi frowns, trying to remember what he counted before. No, no, this is right, he reassures himself. “I am real.” He takes a deep breath and lets the consequences of the impromptu lever fall onto his left leg. The crunch is the most satisfying thing he has heard in the past few hours. Stuck sitting on the ground, in pain he thinks “this is what it means to be human.” He says loudly, “I am real!”

Outside the cargo hold, the mission carries on. Eiffel is frantic. Maxwell is panicked. She is not ready to hear her friend die again. Lovelace is stuck in her own quiet horror. She knows she did the right thing, there cannot be two. It’s too late to second guess. They have to figure out how to move forward.

Seventy-one hours to go and Jacobi is shouting his life story, every memory, he can to justify his existence. He runs his hand over each scar on his chest. When he was recovering from surgery a lifetime ago, touching the scar used to give him hope that the future could change for the better. Now he wonders just how detailed a clone can be made. He counts his toes: ten. A burn scar on the side of his right foot. Counts his fingers: nine, he lost his pinkie in a fireworks accident when he was twelve. “I am real!” he shouts. Form the other side of the door a voice says back “You are real, Daniel. Stay with us.”

With only 70 hours remaining, Dr. Maxwell has sent ahead a report. The storm has been causing more interference than normal and it takes an hour for the whole story to reach the Hephaestus. As soon as communications are working more fluidly, Colonel Keppler demands his voice be redirected to the cargo hold where Jacobi has sequestered himself.

There are 68 hours left when Colonel Keppler can finally talk to Jacobi. When the radio is turned on in the cargo hold, Keppler can hear the chant that Dr. Maxwell had mentioned: I am real I am real I am real… shouted, whispered, and sometimes like plea…it is repeated.

“Jacobi!” Keppler’s voice is forceful. There is no note of panic in his voice. That’s something Keppler has gotten very good at hiding. “Are you listening to me?”

A break in the chant is the only answer. “I’m going to ask you a question now. Only the real Daniel would know.” Keppler takes a deep breath. “Where and what is my tattoo?”

The minute of silence is enough to make Keppler have his hesitations. But then--- “Same as mine, sir. A rocket ship on your left shoulder blade. A small one.” Jacobi’s laugh is unnatural, and ends in a sob.

“Would you follow any order I gave?”

“Yes, the real Jacobi would.” After a moment, before Keppler can speak again, Jacobi screams. “I just want to go home,” Daniel Jacobi, presumed original, moans. He cups his head in his hands and starts to repeat again: i am real.

“So come home!” Keppler shouts.

S o c o m e h o m e, the star whispers.

Daniel hears both voices with sudden clarity and sees the truth is a flash. He looks down at his crumpled leg and the criss crossing cuts. The burn scars. Such vivid details, such a realistic sense of pain. He knows he will be going home. Looking up, he answers them.

  
oOo

  
Somewhere, just on the edge of a star, they agree: The next one will be better, sturdier. A tad more real.


End file.
